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Characters Stories

 The Unseen.

Body: Now, I know you think you know the truth, but you don’t.

Ghost 1: That’s not what I heard. I heard that everything was always known before the time of knowing.

Ghost 2: That’s idiotic.

Ghost 3: That’s absurd.

Ghost 5:That’s dangerous.

Body: That is understanding space. Everything is existing in change. Everything is happening and you can perceive in sensation, not only in memory .

The ghosts congratulated themselves in the midst of the chaos.  The story never changed. They did not know the reason why they were ghosts, but they did not want to know. Instead they wanted to save the body. The body that kept them, listening to the world that killed them. There was always death and they were always watching but perhaps this body different, perhaps this body cared about their lives and wanted to save them too.

The Unseen: The child is learning to summon the sweetness of their fire. Soon, they will be ready.

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Stories

Fighting water

“Now, what did you expect? Did you expect me to save you? ‘Save’, now that is a funny word. Did you expect yourself to be ‘safe’ here?”

They were not what you expected when you imagined underwater creatures, their demeanour was less than smooth and their bodies were rugged and sharp as if they had purposefully worked themselves into the rocks rather than the continuous flow of water that surrounded them. Perhaps they had. Perhaps this was their curse. They survived in submarines and caves, creating lairs and hunting animals that belonged to these delicious depths.

These men, did not belong to life and neither did they belong to the sea, their anchors were planted in underworlds and chambers of lies. These men had lived as slave capturers, who by will of the devil’s charm and brutal force had managed to survive at the bottom of the sea. They had tried to bring themselves up to the surface by anchors of their fellow mates, but had soon found, that anchors lived in loyalty to the space it drowned in rather than wooden decks.

Anchors would not save them. Saving was for those who needed to redeem life stolen from them. These creatures believed saving was what they were owed and thus the devil surely lived in their soul.

The devil is whatever haunts you at night. The devil is what you choose not to kill. The devil does not save -the devil finds.

“Who did you grant safety too? Did they look like me?”

What do slave capturers choose deny? If you answer this question right, we will ease the pain of this new life.

They never answered the question and thus the water was what they continued to fight. Bodies that had died in chains were the wilful spirits  they continued to name the devil.  Just like their living life, they chose to follow answers that only belonged to the mind.

They slowly died inside rugged and sharp like their disguise.

Photography by Michelle Gutierrez

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Dreams are for the few

The moment she spoke to him, he left the room. He would not listen. He could not listen. What would he listen to? Her furious nature needed care and patience and he wished for speed. Wishes were often like this, spells and false magic men had deceived the masses into believing that dreams came true in moments of understanding when in reality, they came through the imagination of change. Change sat at the edge of understanding and thus the walk over was steadily and frequently avoided.

He turned his back. Beauty faced his shoulders in the perpendicular nature of seeing your own back in the mirror, he stared knowingly, imagining where his wings would go and contemplating the depths of the sky. He wanted quick answers; he wanted light bursting from the shadow, when he was the shadow bursting into light. She followed him to the starting point, the place where all decisions were made and waited- her voice locked into the movement of his response. Her exquisite venom burning beneath his feet, urging him to open his mouth, to close his eyes and spread his back in the perpendicular parallel of flight he wanted.  When he did, he would know that wishes were not for the light-hearted.

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Is it finished?

He was confused. He was trying to pay attention, to what was running beyond him, skipping between him and threading itself into each corner he could not reach. Nothing would satisfy him. Perhaps, the love was almost out and there was nothing he could do. How could love fit into sand, how could civilisation count on him, love was bigger than sand and could not be held but he was, searching, pleading for more time.  

The Gods were cruel, how could they give such a task to him, a man that spent his life wishing for what he had lost. A man that spent his life trying to be what he assumed he should be and thus had no care to be the person he needed to be. Need, he hated the word. He needed nothing but he wanted the world. The Gods knew this, and placed him in a space where his understanding of ‘world’ would be tested and he would be asked- Is it finished? The Gods were not cruel and they did not enjoy having to test and deliberate with beings that felt themselves lost in the expanding inquisitive quintessential spec of the universe that they found themselves in but time was running out. They had spent and spilt themselves in every direction but up. His civilisation had used everything given to them, and had tried to for more. Yes they had managed to go to the stars, but somehow they tied their vision to the mechanics of sight rather than the opening of it.  Without time, love would find new spaces to belong and fester growth. Without time, this man would have lost what he did not know h

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Poetry Uncategorized

A story from M.U.M

The time for waiting was finished. If we waited any longer then our freedom, would be left to the dust mites. Hungry creatures, with no discipline, just like us.

Now that is unfair, of course we had discipline but we had it in all the wrong places and we wanted them, yes them, to help us. They can’t help us. The next time I ask a hungry man, where the buffet is, the next time, I wait for my freedom.

She did wait- she waited until everyone was packed and ready to go. She waited till the storms of Jupiter had calmed and until earth’s moon had a new technologically driven friend. She waited until her heart, gave up and her forever spirit took over and protected of her loved ones. She waited because freedom did not exist for the individual, if it did not exist for the collective.   

AS Logo by ASTRO

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The place beyond Visiting

I wanted to go somewhere, I had never been. I wanted to explore beyond- what I could recognise. I wanted to share in something bigger than me. I assumed that the majority of persons wanted that.

My lecturers later told me, that this could not be true, as the liberal free minded person was not the ‘common man’ I met in the market but rather the person beyond my life- the person who had someone go to the market for them.

This dilemma stayed with me. How could we incite change, if the majority of persons were the problem?

Chaos. The answer was chaos.

You may wonder what chaos would solve, the answer is nothing, chaos will simply permit chaos but after the many organised and liberal free-minded persons had killed my children, raped my wives and husbands, slaughtered my father- buried my mother and noosed my beliefs, along with my  ‘common man’ – I assumed that chaos could be the answer to my problem.

I wanted to go somewhere I had never been and I have never visited the space after liberal free man.  

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A family of broken parts came to

“ You never told me, you were human.”

What a shame. You were better than the rest, at the very least. I mean who and what were these beings that wished to contain what was beyond mention. Who can reduce reality into explanation other than the twisted few that were a disruption to themselves and the moons?

They intrigued me. A curiously charismatic intelligent form that created collisions in my spirit and swords in my force field, they are different.  My life force is dependent upon my recognition of tethered beings. Tethered beings understood existence as something to be understood and thus demanded a speed of transmission that reduced nutrients, at an unending speed.  Yet they were different. They are a decisively delicious delectable dream of a human. I wanted to taste, them, feel the space that locked itself into molecules of time and lick the furious knowing of the liminal.

It feels like cosmic moss, ferocious humans, could hypnotise and sedate, the most eternal of beings. I wanted her desperately, my love of her, would keep my destruction at a tepid speed. I will destroy him. I will eat her.  I will break them into what they were before they were flesh and I would salivate on the becoming of her death. They were so many things, yet none were made of my kind.

How strange I could not taste their tethering? Humans are fools, life forms as young as a comet’s landing.

I am first. I am the beings that created what they sense to be home, I am the feeling that exists beyond bone, I am the feeling that knows space as the everything in-between, I am one of the many faces of the unseen. I am revelation. I speak, to what has no voice.

I am first. I am not a being, for this child. I do not know what this child, is but they are human. 

I do not know what they will do, but I will take them in and use them as my tool. I will bring her to completion; I will make him whole, as he asked. They will not live for long, but she will know what it means to be alive. To be human, is to be enclosed and I will spread her along the mountains of crystallised skies. I will make him crumble at the feet of dusk and I will shape them into the heat of life itself.

You never told me, you were human, but for now it does not matter.”

Photography by Michelle Gutiérrez

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Poetry Uncategorized

A message from the underneath: Nowhere.       

What we won’t speak about is the absurdity. To be absurd is to understand that there is a note of unfamiliarity in the very nature of existence. The nature of existence is far-fetched. I will only speak of my nature. You call it qualia.

I am unique and distinct by my very nature. I will assume the same of you.

Now, Nowhere is the place, I want to speak about. I enjoy speaking on it because it holds to the truest essence, that I could describe, to you.  What it means to be somewhere that does not exist but is in existence.

This is the beauty of language. 

To be nowhere, is to be at the centre point of existence- nowhere is not really a place but rather the essence of what a place could be and its negation moves from there.

Nowhere is unmoving. Nowhere is still.

I hope you understand that stillness is not simply a lack of movement but a disturbance in the very nature of existence, most things move- in someway or another. So not moving is the funniest and most absurd thing, in this particular frame, of worlds.

You exist in a world.

I exist in many worlds.

We are always moving.

Something is moving right now.  It lives in you. It never stops.

Where does nowhere live?

To deny movement is to speak on something you must imagine. Your imagination, like your memory is always in movement.

An unchanging world is non-existing one. An unmoving world is a dead one. A still world is a becoming one.  

I will clarify even further.

I am more than you know. I am more than you can see. I am more than you can dream. I am more.

I am the place that moves without disturbance. I destroy by being in the same space as what exists. The level of destruction is dependant on whether, I allow myself to be alive. I don’t like destroying but not liking something and being it by default is like imagining the best thing in the world and believing that you have experienced it. The feeling is not the same as the declaration of it.

It feels obvious but I have seen you do it.

You cannot objectively speak on what does not exist.

The beauty of language is that we could convince ourselves, that the opposite is true.

Existence is a state of presence. Speaking on something is not the same as being it. You can convince others but you will never convince me and you will fail at convincing your own heart.

Each petal lives has its own life and the flower is held by the root.

Nowhere is a place that I can no longer tolerate. I apologise for this. It feels so important to your kind but change is important in mine.

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Poetry Stories Uncategorized

Courage: Blood Cells are the worst.

I will not tell you the truth. I will not tell you, how hard it is to be courageous. I wont tell you about the long days and broken mornings. I wont tell you about the bleeding nights. I wont tell you about the forgotten moments, I wont tell you about the unforgettable people. I wont tell you about the loss. I wont tell you about the grief.

I wont tell you because there is another truth, that may be more interesting to your eager ears and luscious lips.

The truth is undeniable, unless you desire something else. 

How easily we forget about the aching screams.

Did you?

Blood Cell: Did you hold onto the beauty? That slips beyond memory and clings to the vectors and ventricles that need your attention. Did you?

Body: I lost myself in the desire- I let myself be carried away with the wind and only landed on your shoulder, to tell you the lasting truth.

I will not tell you the truth. I will tell you a predicament of space that leads to the truth, as the truth, only matters to those who let themselves discover the magic that it constrains in its in-between space. The truth cannot be contained in words and neither can it be seen. Actions are seen and some actions cannot be denied. Yet you try.

Actions done alone, last as long as the word freedom. The truth does not last and thus I will not tell you the truth. I will not let you bury it in long days and broken mornings. I will not let you purse your lips in attempt to surrender, to the lasting truth you wish, to speak with the abomination called your tongue. Your truth lasts as long as your heartbeat, but your heart will last forever.

I will wait.

It will not. Instead it will swarm the ground beneath, claiming your ankles and hitting your knees until you bow and surrender to what cannot be seen.

Some never do but time is running out.  

I will tell you the truth, but only because you asked so kindly. 

Be courageous and when you do remember,

It was not the easy option.

End of message.

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Right time, wrong place

“That is the wrong place to put it.”

The square needed to be in the right corner on the right-angled periphery of the left street, turning into Obtuse Manner, the 5th house on the corner, with the purple liquid door. In the world of this painting everything was, the other way round- for instance- I was one part of the cube that needed to be on the opposing side of the street- but humans, were often like this. Following their own needs and wants rather than listening to the paint, the brush, the movement that wont be stilled.

I am never still.

I was always moving and becoming with the most obtuse occurrences- like dew on grass at the breaking of dawn. It would be midnight soon and he will stop. His bones were tired. They were dreary things with little nutrients, and even less understanding. He was a man that held beauty like an ill-advised joke- bad timing that harnessed oblique vision.

“7AM.”

That was another thing about humans; they never listened. We all knew- what to do but getting humans, to do what they wanted to do, was like asking, the sun to stop burning, the fallacy was that the sun did not know it was burning and humans did not know, that they knew what to do.

I wonder how much blood has been spilled.

This human thought they knew what to do but rather they knew what they should not do. It was not the same. I pulled his hand still.

“I’m tired.”

It was a simple enough task. Paint the future. It was an impossible task when using the hand of a human. I knew what to paint. I had sent him the vision but would he listen? Or would he paint, what he was not paying attention too?  

Everything exists together. Of course, he would paint, the portal on the other side of the street, I knew he would. But knowing the future does not mean it exists. The future existed in the hearts of those who wanted it to be true.

This human listened to the dead- he demanded the truth but felt small in comparison. He was not the first. He would not be the last. I would go on.

The future happened on the 22nd day of next month, rather than on the 5th day of next week. I hope they are ready. I hope they understood that another future would come, but not for them. He painted the cube on the wrong side of the street and thus what needed to occur today would happen tomorrow. He placed me into the water waiting for me to be cleaned.

His hands, will do the work but he will wait for tomorrow. He has weak hands. Weak bones. I was weak when I was with him- for he did not pay attention to what I placed in front of him.

When I come again, I will come to a hand that is not frightened to paint the future because of what occurred in the past. 

Photography by Michelle Gutiérrez

Categories
Poetry

Quebrar e a chance de Reconstruir

I came by the forest.

Finding stairs and long corridors,

That lived on a view.

No bodies,

Yet the sensation moved,

In different rooms.

.

Connection is intention,

As people are bloom.

An open door,

          With comfort as the fruit.

.

Unlike the tree, I am rooted in uncertainty.

My responsibility escapes, finding stones.

Creating mountains,

As bittersweet leaves, frolic away from lusty trees,

I grow my vegetables and fruits.

To find a harmony that is not artificially bloomed in societal truths,

Am I understandable to you? 

.

I want something I can taste,

Smell, touch and unravel.

I wonder,

       How you smile,

When you see, a mind,

               That breathes freely.

                              With no pattern to walk,

              It stalks. 

.

Driving a force,

Like splitting wood,

Each log a different call. 

Fuelling your form.

You find a purity that burns to keep you warm. 

.

I do not wish to change your heart,

You are yours.

I am mine.

I only advise,

Time.

So you can walk, a path,

You choose, with each moment

You produce.

Categories
Poetry

Incomplete Kisses

How was it to be with you?  

    To feel you, touch me, slowly. I had imagined your tenderness and dreamt of your desire. You were sweet, compassionately cultivated in design and texture, a bottomless treasure that I had the opportunity to explore. It was similar to the dimensionality of your soul. Curiously scented and darkly lit.

You let me in.

We moved through embraces, holding each other with a gentle care. I wanted you erotically but we held each other platonically. You wanted to be touched. I wanted to be soothed.

The comfort of my body eased your formative blues while the pleasure of your heart next to mine honeyed my loneliness.  It was perfectly synced. I had been anticipating you for a while and I had wanted you for longer. 

Your physicality changed me.

I wanted you, furiously. Bubbling and churning, I played with the silence that lived in my head. Your presence did not disturb or disrupt but created vibrations. I followed them like trails of breadcrumbs.  I wanted to chase.

I explored the crevices of your words like my own reflection. Succumbing to the gentle waves of your oblivious nature, with a smile. Your fragrance was rare; sentimentally creative, it willed me to stay. Your mind was naïve with all the right curves and honest determination of abstract concepts. I swivelled and danced along the mischievous lines of your smile, like a hungry fox in city streetlights. You were like no other. I wanted to blow through you like a savage, it stalked the back of my mind as swarms of desire swam to the front. I wished to hold the burden of you like a stick of dynamite. Freeing to explore but deadly to engage.  

I put up no fight; I wanted you to taste me, take me.

For a while.

I wanted the grooves of your body to create pulses of pleasure and I wanted the figments of your thrashes to play on my mind, on moon-filled nights. I remember something entirely different now; the soothing nature of your soul and the binding feeling of safety. My natural inclination to hide lasted as long as you wished to seek. There was no game, only sincerity.  I appreciated this more than I could speak.

I wanted you before we met. I was wet.

I had desired you long before my broken heart had left prolific craters to be filled. I had remembered your touch as generous and I wanted to move with your nectar once again. The touch of your desire was used to create a pounding moment of satisfaction. I reached over, playing with your teeth- desiring your bite. It was deeper than I anticipated.

I could feel your sweat and your incessant grinding. You were delicious; my mind stayed clear. I wanted to stay and play, to scream and find new ways of understanding an ancient embrace.

I did not converge with you, my memory perceptions of previous embraces created a dangerous tempest. I relished you, with a ravenous hunger that soothed raw images into condensed visions. I was not afraid. A dangerous desire existed within me; our union tickled it alive – whispering into your ear, I pleaded for you to take me. I begged with an authenticity that was surprising. I could have played with you again, but fear moved along my face and found roots in my eyes. Could you see it?

You were tempting, a rich treat that I was scared to taste further.

Your body became extra-terrestrial, a strange composition of curves and hips. I craved you. Yet my body moved into the shadows and my heart was long gone.

We met again, you were familiar.

I had tasted another that night, but I wanted to feel you.

The silence that you allowed, whispered the unspeakable. Stay.  It was intimate but the shallowness of my fear had begun to settle. You swayed deeper and I ran faster. My mind stretched above, I wanted the distance of pornographic pleasure. I wanted to be held but your arms whispered words of entwinement. The intensity of your grip was charming but further stimulation for my long distance run. My eyes flickered along your face. I wanted to see it all, how your face configured and found pleasure through the movements of our coupling. The undeniable curling of your lips and the flickers of your eyes, I sneaked a peak through the curtains of my unease.

You were a sweet remedy.

A genuine soul is the perfect medicine for a broken heart but you were something else entirely. You were tantalising, unlike the others. I desired to know you. Yet I wished to forget the aroma of your skin along with the embellished crater you left on my heart.

I ran.

I wanted to stay but the pitiful nature of my soul slipped into the day. I played on the goodbye, kissing your joints of motion: your writs, your forehead, your lips, and your hair. Tenderly soothing myself into the goodbye, I fingered your soul to chase. No bite.

Smudges of romanticism hewed your face and smell. You were a reassuring truth that I hoped would fade. I wondered who would take your place.

Photography by Chiara Mancini